


Unexpected Outcomes

by tersa (alix)



Series: Dragon Age:Dacia [1]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age 2, Dragon Age II
Genre: Canon Het Relationship, F/M, Fix-It, Past Relationship(s), Quest:Best Served Cold
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-19
Updated: 2011-08-19
Packaged: 2017-10-22 20:14:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/242134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alix/pseuds/tersa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A re-imagining of the sequence of Act III events after a friendmanced Fenris is kidnapped as part of the “Best Served Cold” quest. I didn’t like how the game handled Fenris’s reaction (seemingly blase about the whole thing), given his background; this is what <b>I</b> expected would happen.</p><p>Starts immediately after Fenris leaves the scene on the Wounded Coast, and includes a variation on his Question Beliefs quest and the gifting of the Blade of Mercy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unexpected Outcomes

He had been held by blood magic.

Fenris reached the landside gate of Kirkwall at nightfall, and stalked the streets of Lowtown, a pale wraith amongst the dark buildings. He had been _taken_ , he fumed, a thing not even Danarius had managed to do in years of trying, and then had more of that foul magic touching him. Against the night, his skin began to glow faintly from the lyrium etched into his flesh, while he seethed. Again, he turned over in his thoughts what had happened, despite it filling his journey along the Wounded Coast to the city. How he’d been set upon in the mansion, one he’d lived in unmolested for six years after appropriating it from Danarius, by warriors bearing the templar insignia and mages in their robes. Fighting, taking he didn’t know how may down with his weapon and, when that was torn from his grip, continuing to punch and kick and bite until he blacked out. Magic, no doubt.

He had woken up in the sand, a dark-skinned man in mage robes kneeling next to him, bleeding, and Hawke, covered in blood not her own, looking at him with murderous _rage_. Shame had overcome him, for failing her in being taken, but she’d said nothing of that—only that the bastards who had done it were dead, with a tone of such satisfaction that he knew she had _enjoyed_ it. Hawke was very good at meting out death, but it was he who took pleasure in it. To hear it from her unhinged him as much as everything else.

A footpad approached, thinking him easy game in the streets alone after night fall and bearing no visible weapon. With a snarl, Fenris whirled into a crouch, his hand contorting into a claw from which silvery light began to glow brighter, illuminating his face. Whatever the thief saw, he blanched and scurried away. Fenris considered chasing after him, but turned on his heel and continued his way up to Hightown.

He needed a bath. He needed to scrub the taint of magic from his skin, down to the bone, if he could. He passed through the second set of gates and thought about returning to the mansion, and scowled. Cold, dank, dirty, the bucket of water he usually used wouldn’t suffice. He altered his path mid-step, swerving to head to _her_ house at the foot of the Viscount’s former residence.

The dwarf, Bodhan, answered the door. “Hello, messere, the lady isn’t in at the moment,” he announced in his pompous manner.

Fenris ignored him and pushed past. “I know. I just saw her. I need a bath, dwarf.”

“This is most irregular, sir,” Bodhan fussed. “I don’t know if my lady would agree with—“ he cut off, gulping, as Fenris turned to glare at him through narrowed eyes. “But,” he added hastily, “given what good friends you are with her, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind. I’ll have the girl prepare a tub in the kitchen, messere. And maybe something to eat. If you’ll just follow me.”

“Yes,” Fenris said through gritted teeth, doing as asked and following after the dwarf.

It had been a long time since he’d been here. The last time…no, it hadn’t been the time that he and Hawke had…been together, although heat crept up his cheeks as he passed the wall against when she’d thrown him. It had been after that _mage_ had kidnapped and killed her mother, Leandra, after Hawke had cut that madman down and held that perverted, monstrous version of her mother in her arms as she died a second time. He’d felt helpless in the face of her grief, but he had to come, to be there for her. Just as she’d been there for him three years later, when he’d killed his sister for betraying him.

He shook his head, clearing his mind of those memories. That their relationship was complicated was without doubt. Bodhan led him into the estate’s cozy kitchen, a fire burning in the hearth and a great steaming kettle suspended above it. An elf girl was there, a face he thought should be familiar. “Orana, my dear,” Bodhan said. “Please draw up a bath for Master Fenris, here, behind the curtain. And make a plate up for him, won’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” the elf girl replied with a curtsey. Recognition came then—Hadriana’s foundling, the one Hawke had taken in.

Just like him.

She was looking at him, and his mouth thinned to a narrow slash. Gentleness was difficult for him. “I remember you. How do you fare?”

“Very well, sir,” she replied, curtseying again. “Mistress Hawke is ever so kind to me. Three years now, and she still pays me!”

Despite his mood, a corner of his mouth turned up. “She’s like that.”

Dropping her gaze, she turned. “I’ll get your food and draw your bath.”

She was quick with the former, and he wolfed down the cold meat and cheese along with a stale end of bread and a cup of small beer, finding he was starving. He watched her while she worked, dipping buckets of the near boiling water from the kettle and lugging it with quick efficiency back to the half-cask situated in an alcove beside the fireplace, the stones radiating heat and warming the area. Half-full she made it, but when she headed not to the kettle but to the rear door to continue, he grasped her wrist. “No. Make it as hot as possible.”

“But you’ll burn, sir!” she protested.

“As hot as possible,” he repeated.

She paled at the near-growl he delivered it in, but nodded acquiescence. She added two more buckets of the hot water then fetched buckets of cold water to top it off. Steam curled off of it, and putting a hand into it, he could feel it was still scalding.

“There is soap and brushes there, on the table,” she said in a small voice, indicating with a gesture, “clean water in the bucket, and a towel on the pegs. I’ll leave you to your bath.” She twitched the curtain closed behind her along the rope stretched across the mouth of the alcove.

He stripped swiftly, tossing his clothes to the side to stay out of water’s way, and dipped a foot into the tub. It was burning hot. Good. The rest of him followed, folding himself into the half-cask, and his jaw clenched from the rush of pain that he embraced. It was no worse than how he felt. Seizing a brush and the soap, he lathered it up quickly and applied it to his skin. The bristles brought a different kind of hurt, but he welcomed it, digging harder as he scrubbed every square inch he could reach, until it became its own kind of agony and pink tinged the white foam scumming the surface of the water. Scooping up more of the soap, he dug into his hair, fingernails scraping against the scalp until tingling became burning, moving down to wash his face, his ears, his neck, until everything was covered. Blindly, he reached for the dipper in the water bucket and dumped it over his head, letting it sluice down until his eyes were clear. With it, his muscles begin to unknot and he let out a pent-up breath, a splinter of calm slipping into a chink in his anger.

“Do you want me to wash your back?” a woman’s sardonic voice said from the curtain.

The dipper dropped from his fingers, bouncing off the rim of the tub and going *sploosh* into the water. Damn her, anyway. Hawke’s ability to sneak through a battle and come upon an enemy unaware was useful, but he hated that it could be used against him as she’d done. He became aware of how vulnerable he was, naked, weaponless outside of the runes carved into his abraded skin…to _her_. He brought brusqueness up like armor, growling, “Go away.”

Her footsteps brought her into the alcove instead. “It seems to me that you’re in my house. Shouldn’t I be telling you that?” she teased. When he didn’t reply, her clothes rustled behind him, and he could tell she knelt. “Give me the brush.”

Her voice was oddly soft, and, before he realized what he was doing, he found himself offering the brush to her over his shoulder, without turning,. His back stiffened in anticipation and he shivered, not with cold, before the bristles touched his skin. Pleasure surprisingly burst through him for a moment, to be subsumed by the scouring she applied in silence, as thorough and brisk as his own. He wrapped his arms around his knees, body rigid, trying not to think of it as a protective pose, or to think about what she was doing.

The only break to the detachment was after she finished, handing him the brush back, when she paused to graze her fingers down his wet hair towards his neck, sending unexpected arousal trickling down his spine. Withdrawing her hand abruptly, she stood. “I’ll be in the sitting room, when you’re done.”

Then she was gone. He glanced back to verify it and relaxed only when it was confirmed. His gut churned, his emotions a snarl. Why had he come here? he asked, berating himself as he rose to finish rinsing swiftly and exit the tub. It was stupid, he should have known she would return at some point and find him. He hadn’t wanted that…but he’d done it anyway. Why?

The touch of her hand on his head flashed over him, and he paused in his drying, a flush spreading across his skin and his breath quickening with the rush of realization. Because he felt safe here. _Safe_. He straightened and turned that alien concept over in his mind, the towel going slack in his grip. When…had _that_ happened?

He found his clothes had been taken, another surprise and a curse, but he dressed in the plain, soft shirt and pants left for him. He ran a hand through his hair in a careless finger comb, padding out into the halls barefoot to seek her out.

She sat in her favorite chair near the hearth staring into the flames, wearing comfortable clothing not unlike his own. The contrast with the attire he normally saw her in, leather armor and twin blades, unsettled him further. A glass of something was at hand on the table to her left, and across her knees, a giant sword rested, larger by far than the slender blades she favored. Hearing him enter, she glanced back over her shoulder and rose to her feet, turning so that the fire cast half of her in a golden light, burnishing her shoulder-length red hair even deeper, the other into shadows.

“Take a look at this,” she said, lifting the sword across her palms and offering it to him.

With a jolt of discovery, he recognized it. “The Blade of Mercy,” he said with a touch of awe, taking it from her hands. “I remember these. You see them in the Imperium: replicas of the sword Archon Hessarian used to kill Andraste.” He twisted his wrists to stare down the blade, examining its length. “This one looks finely crafted.”

“So they sell these things at every market stand in Minrathous?”

Her irreverent tone, so typical from her, brought a small laugh to his lips. “Hardly. Here, let me show you.” Running a hand down the length of the blade, veins of gold glowed against the blackened metal…not unlike the silvery tattoos on his own skin, he thought. He banished the thought, to say, “These are gifts of honor, given to those who have performed a service for the Imperium” A bitter taste came onto his tongue. “Danarius coveted them, as I recall.” He looked back to her.. “Where did you find it?”

A shoulder lifted in a shrug. “In a warehouse down at the Docks.” Tension thrummed off her, belying her casual tone. “The blade is yours, if you want it.”

His curiosity piqued, he considered digging, but something about her posture warned him off. Mentally, he scrambled for safer ground, on a day already fraught with danger. “For me? Yes. I think I’d like that.” With sudden inspiration, he added, “I’ll think of the irony as I wield it. Thank you, Hawke.”

Silence fell, thick and awkward. After a short time of it, she re-took her seat, but gave him a sidelong look, expectant. There was no sense in it that he should leave, but neither did she invite him to stay. He felt he should say something, anything, and he remembered again the night her mother died, feeling the same way. Except this time, it was he who needed her—another thought to shock him on this strange day.

“You don’t talk about the Imperium much,” she said, breaking into his thoughts.

Finding the sword still in his hands, he laid it aside on the larger table against the wall, back to her. “It’s not a place I remember fondly,” he replied, distracted. He debated saying anything more. But with shock and betrayal, he craved…something. He wanted to _talk_ to her. “And now I’m here. And I am free. Danarius is dead. Yet…it doesn’t feel like it should.”

“Seems like you should be dancing for joy,” she said.

His eyes closed briefly, he sniffed softly. She wouldn’t change, and it was strangely comforting. “I would have thought so,” he said, then turned back to her, heading towards the fireplace to stare into the fire, a hand caught on the mantle. He was aware of her gaze resting upon him, but he was lost in the flickering flames. “I thought if I didn’t need to run and fight to stay alive, I would finally be able to live as a free man does.” He scoffed dismissively. “But how is that? Whatever past I had died with my sister. I have nothing now.” His fingers curled against the wood. “Not even an enemy.”

She was silent for some time and when she spoke, her voice was soft, free of its usual irony. “Maybe that just means there’s nothing hold you back.”

He frowned, turning to look at her. “Hmmm. An interesting thought.” His fingernails dug into the shelf. “It’s just _difficult_ to overlook the stain that magic has left on my life. If I seem bitter, it’s not without cause.” He had today itself as an example, amongst all the other things. His skin tightened, feeling the fainter version of the crawling sensation he’d felt earlier. But with a thought, his glance came up sharply to her face. While he had thought only of his own life, he had forgotten how much magic had touched her own for the worse—from her childhood spent running from town to town to protect her father and sister, to Bethany’s death in the Deep Roads and Leandra’s murder by that psychotic bastard—and yet she seemed free of the hatred that had marred so much of the life he could remember. And she still wanted to be his friend, in spite of everything. Maybe…there was a lesson there for him. He said slowly, “Perhaps it is time to move forward. I just don’t know where that leads.” Helplessness overcame him, and in frustration, he added, “Do you?”

“Wherever it leads,” she replied with equal care, “I hope it means we’ll stay together.”

His breath caught, heart pounding in his throat, rocked by the unanticipated admission. He clung now to the mantle to steady himself. Did he dare…? He met her gaze and there was no trace of mockery. As far as he could tell, she was sincere. Steeling himself, he replied. “That is my hope as well.” Before he could change his mind, he took a deep breath. “We have…never discussed what happened between us three years ago…” He floundered and stopped.

“You didn’t want to talk about it,” she said gently, easing over the awkward gap.

The tone brought a flush of shame over him, goading him into continuing. “I felt like a fool.” He scowled. “I thought it better if you hated me. I deserved no less.” He pushed away from the mantle to turn to face her. “But it isn’t better. That night…” He swallowed down his fear. “I remember your touch as if it was yesterday. I should have asked your forgiveness long ago.” He met her gaze. “I hope you can forgive me now.”

Sitting on the edge of her chair, her hands curled around the edges as she leaned forward, towards him. But she held herself there, saying carefully, “I need to understand why you left.”

She wasn’t making this any easier for him. Perhaps, he thought, he didn’t merit it. His voice turned rough as the snarl of emotions crawled up his throat. “I thought about the answer a thousand times. The pain, the memories it brought up…” He remembered that night so vividly. Remembering his past, before the markings. How badly it had frightened him. Loathing choked him, for being that afraid, for running away, for all the time wasted. “I was a coward. If I could go back, I would stay. Tell you how I felt.”

He heard her breath catch, the normally self-possessed Hawke, and a faint quaver in her voice when she asked, “What would you have said?”

Her eyes shone and her lips parted for her quickened breathing. Heat crawled up his body, a stirring in his groin as desire flared. “Nothing could be worse than the thought of living without you.”

The tip of her tongue darted out, wetting her lower lip, and he felt a jolt of arousal. She gave a faint laugh. “Oh, I don’t know. This might be fun to hold over you a while longer.”

His resistence melted away like sand to the inevitable tide. He stalked towards her, closing the distance with a growl. “If there is a future to be had, I will walk into it gladly at your side.”

She was rising to her feet as he reached her and they came together in a blur. His hand came up to tangle in her hair, dragging her towards him as their mouths met in a hungry clash of lips. An arm snaked around his waist as she pressed her body against his, and he groaned. Blindly, he tore away from her mouth to kiss her chin, her jaw, down her throat to the hollow there, filling it with his tongue.

“Fenris?” she breathed out, breaking into his attentions and bringing his mouth back up her neck.

“Yes, my love?”

An airy chuckle gasped from her. “Take me to bed or lose me forever.”

He shuddered at the force of the lust her words brought over him. He growled against her ear, “As you wish.”

* * *

  
Another fire crackled in the hearth, but this time, he remained in bed afterwards, rolled on his side so he could look at her. He wasn’t sure what time it was other than a suspicion it was very late. Her eyes were closed, but he knew she wasn’t sleeping, a contented half-smile playing up the corners of her mouth. He had something to ask her, but wasn’t sure if he should. Then again, after all that they’d said and done tonight…what was one more thing? “Varric and Aveline came to me a few days ago, in the mansion.”

“Oh?” she asked, voice sleepy.

“Yes.” He hesitated, not for doubt, but for how to say it. “I think they were ganging up on me, trying to convince me it was time to move out. Aveline doesn’t think she can keep the seneschal away any longer.”

That got her attention. Eyes flying open, she tucked her elbows in to raise her shoulders from the bed, turning her head to look at him. “What? You’re not leaving, are you….?”

He chuckled, a new-found luxury that surprised him with how easy it came. Her motion had slid the bedsheet down to bare the side of her breast, and he reached out his hand to caress it with the backs of his fingers, lingering over the swelling curve of it with a feeling of wonder. “The mansion, maybe. I will…need to find a new place to live.” Her glance dropped to what his hand was doing, then back to meet his eyes, apprehension draining away to be replaced by bemusement. But she remained silent, waiting, as a new tension gathered until he could stand it no longer. “Will you make me say it?”

“Apparently so,” she replied, her voice filled with laughter.

A growl bubbled up in his chest, too filled with light to be taken seriously. “Would you have me here?”

Her smirk lit up her face. “Do you have to ask?”

His fingers uncurled, sliding up to cover her breast, finding the nipple and stimulating it with a swirl that caused it to harden immediately and elicited a grunt and a sigh from her. His voice was dark as he responded to her humor. “Apparently so.”

A true laugh broke from her, and she loosed her arm to reach up and cover his hand, drawing it away from his fondling to bring to her lips, kissing his fingers. “I would have you here. Or in the hall,” she added, her grin turning wicked. “Or in the sitting room. Or the kitchen—“

With a surge, he slid his hand around her head and pulled her down atop him as he rolled. “Let’s start with here. And work on the other places later.”


End file.
